on the shape I'm in and the slow-creeping hand of time...
And so time has become a tortoise...
How is it still June? How have I only been back in Milledgeville for a month? It's beginning to feel like a century. Time's little inconsistencies are, and always have been, among my least favorite of life's truisms. When things are fun, time is scarce; when life grows humdrum and painfully repetitive, time is stretched into some never-ending malaise, a jumble of days that, except for their being paired with numbers on a calendar, possess not even a vague level of singularity. This is, without a doubt, the highest degree of solitude I've ever experienced. Of course, I see people here and there, but what I wouldn't give for another summer in Baton Rouge.
A visit from friends in July feels like a rumor, and the new semester's coming might as well be a manned mission to Mars.
How is it still June? How have I only been back in Milledgeville for a month? It's beginning to feel like a century. Time's little inconsistencies are, and always have been, among my least favorite of life's truisms. When things are fun, time is scarce; when life grows humdrum and painfully repetitive, time is stretched into some never-ending malaise, a jumble of days that, except for their being paired with numbers on a calendar, possess not even a vague level of singularity. This is, without a doubt, the highest degree of solitude I've ever experienced. Of course, I see people here and there, but what I wouldn't give for another summer in Baton Rouge.
A visit from friends in July feels like a rumor, and the new semester's coming might as well be a manned mission to Mars.